This post is going out a little later than usual, I know, but it's not like anyone cares enough to look at my blog before I post "New blog post!" on Facebook and Twitter, anyway. Between finishing projects, studying for finals, watching Netflix, and staring at the ceiling as my roommate played Assassin's Creed until 4:00 in the morning, I literally had no time to write so I apologize for my excuses. I also apologize for the shortness of this post but after the verbosity of some of my earlier posts I don't think you'll mind too terribly much. It's just that writing an entire novella in one month can make a person feel like they need respite from writing.
I won NaNoWriMo with a grand total of 50,068 words! In more comprehensible terms, that's just over 90 pages in Microsoft Word, Times New Roman, 12-point font, one-inch margins, single spaced; or 175 pages double spaced -- the equivalent of 35, five-page papers. Of course, when the only objective is writing as many words as possible, quality tends to be slightly less than that of a paper written entirely the night before it's due. Still, it's 50,068 words I didn't have at the beginning of the November. Not only did I meet my goal of surpassing last year's word count that plateaued at 40,000 words, but I actually like my story! This surprised me more than anything. I'm the type of person that once I set my mind to accomplishing a task or goal there are very few things that can prevent me from doing so, so I knew I could win; it was just a matter of how much I wanted to kill myself by the end of the month. Come November 30, I didn't want to kill myself. Some of my characters may or may not have been so lucky.
Now that November's over, what's next? Well, once I've had sufficient time to forget about my story, I'll let loose my inner editor and keel over backwards, stunned by the atrocious writing. But that is what I've been looking forward to most since October 31. I want to transform the raw, unfiltered ideas into a coherent story. Who knows? Maybe one day I'll even get it published. But I won't get ahead of myself; all I can do is edit, revise, and become a better writer.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
No sonnet this week, I'm afraid.
To all my fellow college students, good luck on finals!
To everyone else, have a great week! -NLD
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked this post? Didn't like it?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
A weekly blog of original sonnets, etc.
December 11, 2013
December 4, 2013
A Manner of Speaking
I have been super swamped with final projects and studying for finals so I haven't had the time or brain capacity to write a full blog post. Excuses, excuses, I know, but I feel like a geology lab final mapping project, a computer science planetary gravitation animator program, a Japanese vocabulary quiz, and a Japanese final exam are valid excuses when condensed into a three day period. It's been a while since I last posted a sonnet, though, so I'll tag in a sonnet I wrote earlier this year. I'll get my NaNoWriMo debrief out once I'm not up to my ears in schoolwork.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I started writing this sonnet over a year ago but only finished it a couple months ago. That is mainly because of the long periods during which I didn't work on it but also because it just took me that long to get it right. The original idea I started with over a year ago was to write a sonnet using only idioms. So here it is:
A Manner of Speaking
Though silver streaks this cloud contains, please hold
Your horses -- specially Charley. Someone beat
Him for a bucket kicked in moment's heat
And kept his eye for on the rest. All told,
Should canny cat possess my tongue then cold
My blood will run till thoughts I think on feet.
So hungry for coherent words I'd eat
Your horse and pay with arms and legs I sold
For less than heads and tails. But Charley brings
A gift of verse; don't look him in the mouth.
Yet still I'm on a limb, no room to swing
The canny cat against the clock. Should things
From wrong directions rubbed on you go South
I'm leaving you with this: a piece of cake.
How many idioms did you count? Leave a comment with your answer. The first one to get it right gets a virtual high five! Woo! Once finals are over I'll do my best to get the backlog of posts I say I'm going to post posted. That's all for now. Have a great week! -NLD
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked this post? Didn't like it?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I started writing this sonnet over a year ago but only finished it a couple months ago. That is mainly because of the long periods during which I didn't work on it but also because it just took me that long to get it right. The original idea I started with over a year ago was to write a sonnet using only idioms. So here it is:
A Manner of Speaking
Though silver streaks this cloud contains, please hold
Your horses -- specially Charley. Someone beat
Him for a bucket kicked in moment's heat
And kept his eye for on the rest. All told,
Should canny cat possess my tongue then cold
My blood will run till thoughts I think on feet.
So hungry for coherent words I'd eat
Your horse and pay with arms and legs I sold
For less than heads and tails. But Charley brings
A gift of verse; don't look him in the mouth.
Yet still I'm on a limb, no room to swing
The canny cat against the clock. Should things
From wrong directions rubbed on you go South
I'm leaving you with this: a piece of cake.
How many idioms did you count? Leave a comment with your answer. The first one to get it right gets a virtual high five! Woo! Once finals are over I'll do my best to get the backlog of posts I say I'm going to post posted. That's all for now. Have a great week! -NLD
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked this post? Didn't like it?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
November 26, 2013
Homeward Bound! But Where's Shadow?
I'm posting a day early because today is the day I'm actually going home for Thanksgiving Break; I thought it would be more appropriate, considering the title and content of this post. This post is mainly my unfiltered thoughts from when I wrote it at 1:30 in the morning so if they seem a little abrasive, that's probably why.
If you're reading this on the day of its posting, good for you; but for me there are only four and a half days left of NaNoWriMo! If you're not reading this on the day it was posted, I assume you had a hideous eye-infection that prevented you from doing so. Just as it doesn't really matter when you're actually reading this, the last four and a half days of NaNoWriMo don't really matter because I've already achieved my goal of writing more words than I did last year. Scratch that. IT MATTERS! I've come way too far not to finish now. Once November's over I'll finally be able to unleash the natural editor inside me that I've kept chained and padlocked in a dark and lonely cell with walls three feet thick and only one key -- "The End."
NaNoWriMo has been a bit of a wild ride for me. There was a week at the very beginning where I liked my secondary characters more than my main character but since then I've suffered from a severe case of the neglected subplot. I'm okay with this, though, because I can always go back and flesh out my subplots during edits but I have to resolve my main conflict one way or the other by the end of the month. Next week I'll probably do a brief debrief before continuing on with the story of my summer.
Right now, however, I'd like to write about something that's been bothering me this past week. Over the past few months I've felt the best I've felt about myself in a long time. I can wake up in the morning, look in the mirror (after I've showered, of course) and say to myself, "What a good looking, smart young man you are!" I've managed to do well in all of my classes -- even the one with a difficult professor. Heck! I'm writing a freaking novel! How cool is that? In addition to all that, I have a great group of friends that I have dinner with more often than not, even though I live halfway across campus. The best analogy I could come up with for how I feel/felt is Sassy the cat from "Homeward Bound." If you haven't seen "Homeward Bound" you must not have had a childhood. Anywho, Sassy nearly drowned after plummeting down a waterfall -- my grandfathers' deaths -- but was nursed back to health and is now back stronger and sassier than ever. (Believe me; I have my sassy days.) I'm homeward bound -- in the home stretch -- both for NaNoWriMo and this quarter. Soon I'll be home enjoying the comforts of family and real food. But something's missing. Where's Shadow the golden retriever?
This past week I've felt as if something is missing from my life. I noticed that I've been listening to songs that have a powerful cathartic effect on me -- "Into the West" from "The Return of the King" soundtrack and "Fire with Fire" by the Scissor Sisters, to name a couple. I even dug out the slideshow I made for my high school graduation. It could be that I'm just anxious to get home and see my family but if my subconscious is honest with me, I don't think that's it.
A few nights ago I had a dream with a meaning as clear as lake water. A certain well-known YouTube violinist/dancer came to my school to perform. After her performance she decided to hang around the dorms for a few days to get to know people. For some reason, she took particular interest in me. We became friends and would sit around eating apples as we chatted. Things never progressed beyond that. Even though she's quite a bit older than me I still find her to be a very attractive young woman so I was confused as to why my subconscious wouldn't capitalize on such a fortuitous situation. As a boy I woke up disappointed; as a friend, happy; as an individual, restless.
I may just be shoving words into the porcupine's mouth, but I definitely feel like that dream means something. Even if it has no meaning, it made me analyze my friendships and think about what it is I want from them. I feel like an ass typing this, but most -- if not all -- of the friendships I've formed since coming to college are supplementary to my studies, meaning, I use my friends and the adventures we have as a method to blow off steam built up in the pressure chamber that is my Computer Science class. That isn't to say I don't genuinely care about my friends because I do; it's just that if it comes down to a choice between spending an entire Saturday working on things I want to get done or going to Vancouver with my friends, I'll choose to lock myself in my room with a bag of potato chips until I've finished whatever it is that I wanted to get done. I'll dispense with the hypothetical pretenses and just say that this is exactly what happened last Saturday (11/23). But apparently, working nonstop on Japanese homework, Computer Science homework, a study abroad application, and 2,117 words for NaNoWriMo from 11:30am to midnight wasn't enough, because I stayed up until 1:30am writing this blog post.
As much as I ended up getting done, it wasn't without much deliberation that I declined the invitation to Vancouver. The reason, I think, goes back to that dream I had a few nights ago; what do I want out of my friendships? Could it be possible that I'd like something more than just eating apples and chatting? It's possible but my conscious mind tells me that's not it. I think what had a larger impact is this: "I have trust issues."
I keep my own true feelings well guarded not because I'm afraid somebody might hurt me but because I fear that my feelings will hurt someone else. It makes absolutely no sense, I know, but because of this I find it very hard to trust anyone but my family and a few of my closest friends from high school. Yes, I will tell someone -- you, the reader of this blog, for instance -- personal details about myself but it is very likely I'm only doing so because it's something I've already incorporated into who I am as a person and don't think should really matter to anyone else. Sometimes it does. It's not anything I wouldn't tell any of my friends, it's just a matter of who wants to know about it. You're still reading this blog so I would hope that you give a ripe banana about what I'm writing. If not, eh, that's your choice.
Another of my trust issues -- and perhaps one of the more irrationally understandable ones -- is that if someone gives me any reason whatsoever not to trust them, I will tend not to, especially in situations where serious injury is possible, such as being a passenger in a car. If I know the driver has a history of less-than-intelligent decisions, I will automatically feel uncomfortable no matter how safe of a driver they actually are. I don't quite know how I developed these trust issues but they're there. Maybe it has something to do with the Minnesota Vikings.
So what am I missing? I have no idea. Maybe it's my family. Maybe it's friends that I don't spend enough time with. Maybe it's a trustworthy companion like Shadow I can share more than just smalltalk with. Maybe it's that character in my story I just killed. Maybe it's something completely different. All I know is that if I'm going to sit around waiting for some famous, attractive girl to walk up to me and hand me an apple it's going to be a long wait. The sad thing is, though, that might be what I'm waiting for.
Current NaNoWriMo Word Count: 43,047
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I started working on a new sonnet but because I'm posting earlier than usual it didn't get finished in time. Perhaps I'll post it later this week.
If you're reading this on the day of its posting, good for you; but for me there are only four and a half days left of NaNoWriMo! If you're not reading this on the day it was posted, I assume you had a hideous eye-infection that prevented you from doing so. Just as it doesn't really matter when you're actually reading this, the last four and a half days of NaNoWriMo don't really matter because I've already achieved my goal of writing more words than I did last year. Scratch that. IT MATTERS! I've come way too far not to finish now. Once November's over I'll finally be able to unleash the natural editor inside me that I've kept chained and padlocked in a dark and lonely cell with walls three feet thick and only one key -- "The End."
NaNoWriMo has been a bit of a wild ride for me. There was a week at the very beginning where I liked my secondary characters more than my main character but since then I've suffered from a severe case of the neglected subplot. I'm okay with this, though, because I can always go back and flesh out my subplots during edits but I have to resolve my main conflict one way or the other by the end of the month. Next week I'll probably do a brief debrief before continuing on with the story of my summer.
Right now, however, I'd like to write about something that's been bothering me this past week. Over the past few months I've felt the best I've felt about myself in a long time. I can wake up in the morning, look in the mirror (after I've showered, of course) and say to myself, "What a good looking, smart young man you are!" I've managed to do well in all of my classes -- even the one with a difficult professor. Heck! I'm writing a freaking novel! How cool is that? In addition to all that, I have a great group of friends that I have dinner with more often than not, even though I live halfway across campus. The best analogy I could come up with for how I feel/felt is Sassy the cat from "Homeward Bound." If you haven't seen "Homeward Bound" you must not have had a childhood. Anywho, Sassy nearly drowned after plummeting down a waterfall -- my grandfathers' deaths -- but was nursed back to health and is now back stronger and sassier than ever. (Believe me; I have my sassy days.) I'm homeward bound -- in the home stretch -- both for NaNoWriMo and this quarter. Soon I'll be home enjoying the comforts of family and real food. But something's missing. Where's Shadow the golden retriever?
This past week I've felt as if something is missing from my life. I noticed that I've been listening to songs that have a powerful cathartic effect on me -- "Into the West" from "The Return of the King" soundtrack and "Fire with Fire" by the Scissor Sisters, to name a couple. I even dug out the slideshow I made for my high school graduation. It could be that I'm just anxious to get home and see my family but if my subconscious is honest with me, I don't think that's it.
A few nights ago I had a dream with a meaning as clear as lake water. A certain well-known YouTube violinist/dancer came to my school to perform. After her performance she decided to hang around the dorms for a few days to get to know people. For some reason, she took particular interest in me. We became friends and would sit around eating apples as we chatted. Things never progressed beyond that. Even though she's quite a bit older than me I still find her to be a very attractive young woman so I was confused as to why my subconscious wouldn't capitalize on such a fortuitous situation. As a boy I woke up disappointed; as a friend, happy; as an individual, restless.
I may just be shoving words into the porcupine's mouth, but I definitely feel like that dream means something. Even if it has no meaning, it made me analyze my friendships and think about what it is I want from them. I feel like an ass typing this, but most -- if not all -- of the friendships I've formed since coming to college are supplementary to my studies, meaning, I use my friends and the adventures we have as a method to blow off steam built up in the pressure chamber that is my Computer Science class. That isn't to say I don't genuinely care about my friends because I do; it's just that if it comes down to a choice between spending an entire Saturday working on things I want to get done or going to Vancouver with my friends, I'll choose to lock myself in my room with a bag of potato chips until I've finished whatever it is that I wanted to get done. I'll dispense with the hypothetical pretenses and just say that this is exactly what happened last Saturday (11/23). But apparently, working nonstop on Japanese homework, Computer Science homework, a study abroad application, and 2,117 words for NaNoWriMo from 11:30am to midnight wasn't enough, because I stayed up until 1:30am writing this blog post.
As much as I ended up getting done, it wasn't without much deliberation that I declined the invitation to Vancouver. The reason, I think, goes back to that dream I had a few nights ago; what do I want out of my friendships? Could it be possible that I'd like something more than just eating apples and chatting? It's possible but my conscious mind tells me that's not it. I think what had a larger impact is this: "I have trust issues."
I keep my own true feelings well guarded not because I'm afraid somebody might hurt me but because I fear that my feelings will hurt someone else. It makes absolutely no sense, I know, but because of this I find it very hard to trust anyone but my family and a few of my closest friends from high school. Yes, I will tell someone -- you, the reader of this blog, for instance -- personal details about myself but it is very likely I'm only doing so because it's something I've already incorporated into who I am as a person and don't think should really matter to anyone else. Sometimes it does. It's not anything I wouldn't tell any of my friends, it's just a matter of who wants to know about it. You're still reading this blog so I would hope that you give a ripe banana about what I'm writing. If not, eh, that's your choice.
Another of my trust issues -- and perhaps one of the more irrationally understandable ones -- is that if someone gives me any reason whatsoever not to trust them, I will tend not to, especially in situations where serious injury is possible, such as being a passenger in a car. If I know the driver has a history of less-than-intelligent decisions, I will automatically feel uncomfortable no matter how safe of a driver they actually are. I don't quite know how I developed these trust issues but they're there. Maybe it has something to do with the Minnesota Vikings.
So what am I missing? I have no idea. Maybe it's my family. Maybe it's friends that I don't spend enough time with. Maybe it's a trustworthy companion like Shadow I can share more than just smalltalk with. Maybe it's that character in my story I just killed. Maybe it's something completely different. All I know is that if I'm going to sit around waiting for some famous, attractive girl to walk up to me and hand me an apple it's going to be a long wait. The sad thing is, though, that might be what I'm waiting for.
Current NaNoWriMo Word Count: 43,047
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I started working on a new sonnet but because I'm posting earlier than usual it didn't get finished in time. Perhaps I'll post it later this week.
If you're in the United States, I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving! Enjoy the food and the company of your family and be thankful for all the things in your life that make you who you are -- both the good and the bad, the triumphs and the failures, the known and the as of yet unknown. Happy Thanksgiving! Until next time. -NLD
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked this post? Didn't like it?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked this post? Didn't like it?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
November 20, 2013
A Lahar of Tea and Fruit Snacks
The blog post that has been twice postponed is finally flowing into your eyes, carried from my keyboard to your screen by a lahar of tea and fruit snacks. My summer was far too busy for me to write about the entire thing in one post so I'll just cover my summer classes and save the rest for a later post.
I returned from my grandmother's house -- bustling with friends and family stopping by with cards, condolences, and hot dish -- to an empty house but for the one remaining cat of the two that had made the long, hot journey out to Washington and the last and oldest of the three original cats I grew up with. It was hard those first few days being back: to still find Frisky's hair on everything; to not hear her at 6:00 in the morning, saying, "feed me." But Midnight -- my brother's cat -- was there to fill the six o'clock silence.
After learning to close my door at night, I woke up around 7:00 most every day. I would feed the cat before I poured myself a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats; most mornings I barely had time to pour the milk before Midnight had inhaled her canned food. After showering, I would do a few chores around the house: watering the flowers, picking lettuce for my lunch or sweeping the kitchen floor. At 8:41 I would load up my backpack and head out the door to drive the 28.4 miles to school for my 10:00 class. Why leave over an hour early to get someplace that takes 40 minutes,max to get to? because I'm the type of person that expects to be delayed by traffic driving through one of the least densely populated areas west of the Cascades and east of Puget Sound; I'm the type of person that thinks it'll take twenty minutes to walk from the parking lot to my classroom; I'm the type of person that has to be 20 minutes early anyway. Somehow I managed to make it to class on time. When my classes were done for the day I'd drive the 28.4 miles back home, do my homework, fry myself an egg or make half a box of Kraft Mac 'N' Cheese, proceed to eat it all in one sitting and then sit in a fake-cheese induced stupor watching television or YouTube until I went to bed around 11:00.
I found that having an entire house to myself suited me. Apart from the freedom it imparted, it was good to know that I'm capable of taking care of myself for an extended period of time. For the first time in my life, I had to go to the grocery store and get my own groceries -- not just the snacky stuff I keep in my dorm room for when I'm too lazy to go to the dining hall -- actual groceries. By no means did I go crazy with the pots and pans but I experimented with a few cornerstones of cooking. For instance, I'd never cooked my own eggs -- let alone Eggs in a Basket -- but by the time my mother returned home I could fry or scramble eggs with the best of the mediocrities. It's a great feeling knowing you can go without your mother or a dining hall for a month and not DIE. In addition to providing myself with the basic necessities of life, my time alone provided an opportunity to gauge how well I manage my own time. There wasn't anyone to remind me to do my homework or take out the trash; I must be okay at the whole time management thing, though, because the pile of Snickers wrappers never got over four inches high and I didn't fail any of my classes.
By far my favorite class from summer quarter was "Tolkien's Imaginary Languages." In addition to learning to read, write, and speak Elvish, the morphology of Dwarvish, and a few Black Speech words, I learned (almost) the entire history of Middle Earth. Not only was it a language, linguistics, and history class but also an art and literature appreciation class. This fusion of everything I'm interested in made it the best class I've ever taken, made better by the brilliant professor that taught it. Of course, I already knew how brilliant he is because he was my professor for "Intro to Russian Civilization" -- the prerequisite class I took in the Spring. In our stuides of Tolkien and his universe we covered everything from the origin of orcs to the unknown origin of hobbits; from Gandalf's real name to Saruman's Orcish one; from Beowulf to the Kalevala; from Tolkien's illustrations to his personal life; from the Creation of Middle Earth to the current Age of Man. It was on the Creation of Middle Earth that I did my final project. Middle Earth and the wider world of Arda were brought into existence through song; I decided to compose that song using Tolkien's "Ainulindalë" from The Silmarillion as a guide. I would never use GarageBand again largely because of it's uncooperativeness when it comes to details like 16th note triplets, instrumentation, or sound levels but it was nice (to begin with) for someone like me that had never composed a piece of music before because I could just mess around and listen for what sounded good. I will probably never compose another piece of music -- that's probably a good thing -- but it was a fun experience and I got an "A" for it so BAM!
My professor for the Tolkien course also taught the Morphology class I took. While I think much of that class went in one ear and out the other, the material must have hung around long enough for me to do well on the tests. Irregardless (that's a Morphology joke, by the way), it was a fascinating class and I am very glad to have taken it.
The other Linguistics class I took -- Sociolinguistics -- was far less interesting. Sociolinguistics is an intriguing subject but the professor failed to improve his performance from when I had him for "Intro to Linguistics" during spring quarter. He's the nicest little old man you'll ever meet but he is incapable of teaching a class. He's one of those professors where you think the class might be better if he didn't rely so heavily on videos but you're not sure so you're glad he does because you don't want to listen to any more of his mind-numbingly boring lectures. The best part about that class was his eclectic wardrobe; I never knew if he would show up to class wearing the tweed suit and clip-on bow tie he wears during the regular school year or a tie-die t-shirt, ripped khakis, one of those jackets with the leather strips hanging from the sleeves, and an old bandana to top it all off. Some days it felt like I'd missed the memo about "hippy day."
As a "for fun" class I also took "Beginning Windsurfing." I may revisit windsurfing in a later post but I don't want to spend too much time on it right now because this post has gone on long enough; I'll just say this: holy crap was it a workout.
Current NaNoWriMo word count: 32,010 words
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I know this is a poetry blog but I'm changing things up a bit; instead of a sonnet, I've posted the final project I did for my Tolkien class. After all, music is but a more pure form of poetry. Keep in mind that I used GarageBand (aka the crappiest software for composition ever), that this was my first attempt at composing ANYTHING, and that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. You have been warned.
I must also mention that some parts may sound familiar. I borrowed bits from the movie soundtracks partly because I was running out of time but mostly because I wanted a recognizable song associated with a certain character or scene to represent the creation of a particular race of beings (elves, men, hobbits, etc.).
Before you follow the link to my project please PLEASE read at least the first section (up to page three, paragraph 2 in the link I've provided) of Tolkien's Ainulindalë; if you do, my composition should make a little more sense and not seem as bad as it is.
READ THIS BEFORE FOLLOWING THE LINK BELOW!! ---> Tolkien's Ainulindalë Text
Sound Cloud: Tolkien Final Project -- Ainulindalë
I hope you enjoyed this week's post. I'll be back next week with -- I hope -- the rest of my summer and maybe even a brand new sonnet. Until then, have a great week! -NLD
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked this post? Didn't like it?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
I returned from my grandmother's house -- bustling with friends and family stopping by with cards, condolences, and hot dish -- to an empty house but for the one remaining cat of the two that had made the long, hot journey out to Washington and the last and oldest of the three original cats I grew up with. It was hard those first few days being back: to still find Frisky's hair on everything; to not hear her at 6:00 in the morning, saying, "feed me." But Midnight -- my brother's cat -- was there to fill the six o'clock silence.
After learning to close my door at night, I woke up around 7:00 most every day. I would feed the cat before I poured myself a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats; most mornings I barely had time to pour the milk before Midnight had inhaled her canned food. After showering, I would do a few chores around the house: watering the flowers, picking lettuce for my lunch or sweeping the kitchen floor. At 8:41 I would load up my backpack and head out the door to drive the 28.4 miles to school for my 10:00 class. Why leave over an hour early to get someplace that takes 40 minutes,max to get to? because I'm the type of person that expects to be delayed by traffic driving through one of the least densely populated areas west of the Cascades and east of Puget Sound; I'm the type of person that thinks it'll take twenty minutes to walk from the parking lot to my classroom; I'm the type of person that has to be 20 minutes early anyway. Somehow I managed to make it to class on time. When my classes were done for the day I'd drive the 28.4 miles back home, do my homework, fry myself an egg or make half a box of Kraft Mac 'N' Cheese, proceed to eat it all in one sitting and then sit in a fake-cheese induced stupor watching television or YouTube until I went to bed around 11:00.
I found that having an entire house to myself suited me. Apart from the freedom it imparted, it was good to know that I'm capable of taking care of myself for an extended period of time. For the first time in my life, I had to go to the grocery store and get my own groceries -- not just the snacky stuff I keep in my dorm room for when I'm too lazy to go to the dining hall -- actual groceries. By no means did I go crazy with the pots and pans but I experimented with a few cornerstones of cooking. For instance, I'd never cooked my own eggs -- let alone Eggs in a Basket -- but by the time my mother returned home I could fry or scramble eggs with the best of the mediocrities. It's a great feeling knowing you can go without your mother or a dining hall for a month and not DIE. In addition to providing myself with the basic necessities of life, my time alone provided an opportunity to gauge how well I manage my own time. There wasn't anyone to remind me to do my homework or take out the trash; I must be okay at the whole time management thing, though, because the pile of Snickers wrappers never got over four inches high and I didn't fail any of my classes.
By far my favorite class from summer quarter was "Tolkien's Imaginary Languages." In addition to learning to read, write, and speak Elvish, the morphology of Dwarvish, and a few Black Speech words, I learned (almost) the entire history of Middle Earth. Not only was it a language, linguistics, and history class but also an art and literature appreciation class. This fusion of everything I'm interested in made it the best class I've ever taken, made better by the brilliant professor that taught it. Of course, I already knew how brilliant he is because he was my professor for "Intro to Russian Civilization" -- the prerequisite class I took in the Spring. In our stuides of Tolkien and his universe we covered everything from the origin of orcs to the unknown origin of hobbits; from Gandalf's real name to Saruman's Orcish one; from Beowulf to the Kalevala; from Tolkien's illustrations to his personal life; from the Creation of Middle Earth to the current Age of Man. It was on the Creation of Middle Earth that I did my final project. Middle Earth and the wider world of Arda were brought into existence through song; I decided to compose that song using Tolkien's "Ainulindalë" from The Silmarillion as a guide. I would never use GarageBand again largely because of it's uncooperativeness when it comes to details like 16th note triplets, instrumentation, or sound levels but it was nice (to begin with) for someone like me that had never composed a piece of music before because I could just mess around and listen for what sounded good. I will probably never compose another piece of music -- that's probably a good thing -- but it was a fun experience and I got an "A" for it so BAM!
My professor for the Tolkien course also taught the Morphology class I took. While I think much of that class went in one ear and out the other, the material must have hung around long enough for me to do well on the tests. Irregardless (that's a Morphology joke, by the way), it was a fascinating class and I am very glad to have taken it.
The other Linguistics class I took -- Sociolinguistics -- was far less interesting. Sociolinguistics is an intriguing subject but the professor failed to improve his performance from when I had him for "Intro to Linguistics" during spring quarter. He's the nicest little old man you'll ever meet but he is incapable of teaching a class. He's one of those professors where you think the class might be better if he didn't rely so heavily on videos but you're not sure so you're glad he does because you don't want to listen to any more of his mind-numbingly boring lectures. The best part about that class was his eclectic wardrobe; I never knew if he would show up to class wearing the tweed suit and clip-on bow tie he wears during the regular school year or a tie-die t-shirt, ripped khakis, one of those jackets with the leather strips hanging from the sleeves, and an old bandana to top it all off. Some days it felt like I'd missed the memo about "hippy day."
As a "for fun" class I also took "Beginning Windsurfing." I may revisit windsurfing in a later post but I don't want to spend too much time on it right now because this post has gone on long enough; I'll just say this: holy crap was it a workout.
Current NaNoWriMo word count: 32,010 words
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I know this is a poetry blog but I'm changing things up a bit; instead of a sonnet, I've posted the final project I did for my Tolkien class. After all, music is but a more pure form of poetry. Keep in mind that I used GarageBand (aka the crappiest software for composition ever), that this was my first attempt at composing ANYTHING, and that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. You have been warned.
I must also mention that some parts may sound familiar. I borrowed bits from the movie soundtracks partly because I was running out of time but mostly because I wanted a recognizable song associated with a certain character or scene to represent the creation of a particular race of beings (elves, men, hobbits, etc.).
Before you follow the link to my project please PLEASE read at least the first section (up to page three, paragraph 2 in the link I've provided) of Tolkien's Ainulindalë; if you do, my composition should make a little more sense and not seem as bad as it is.
READ THIS BEFORE FOLLOWING THE LINK BELOW!! ---> Tolkien's Ainulindalë Text
Sound Cloud: Tolkien Final Project -- Ainulindalë
I hope you enjoyed this week's post. I'll be back next week with -- I hope -- the rest of my summer and maybe even a brand new sonnet. Until then, have a great week! -NLD
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked this post? Didn't like it?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
November 13, 2013
A Sudden Storm of NaNoWriMo
I would have liked to get caught up to at least the beginning of the current quarter but when I think about how busy my summer was, that's not going to happen. As busy as it was, my summer didn't involve powerful emotions like those associated with the loss of a cat or grandparent. Without those emotions to fuel the wood stove of creativity I find it more difficult to write about my own life. In addition, NaNoWriMo has been sucking a lot of my time, energy, and words. I still want to do justice to a recapitulation of my summer, though, so I'm going to postpone that tale until next week... or whenever I get around to writing it. Instead I'll just give an update on NaNoWriMo, post a sonnet and call it good for the week.
Here I am, in the middle of the second full week of 1667 words per day and I'm barely hanging on to the bullet train that is NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). This is my second year doing NaNoWriMo and my second year deciding on a story at 11:30 pm on October 31st. It was a bit of a slow start but now that my plot has clicked in my mind things are moving along. But I don't want them to. Coming up with plot has never been a problem for me; where I struggle is in description and character development. But trying to work on what I suck at can be problematic when NaNoWriMo's only purpose is to get words on the page -- a lot of them. Whether they're total crap or not makes a rat's fart of difference but I as sure as taxes better make my word count for the day or things of a terrifying and inexplicable nature will happen. So when it comes to deciding between sitting here for an hour struggling with a paragraph of description or blazing ahead and leaving the essence my story far behind, I choose the latter. I have to remind myself that NaNoWriMo isn't just about writing a lot of words, it's fighting through a paragraph of description here and there; it's closing all seventeen of those YouTube tabs and opening up a blank document; it's, for one month, devoting yourself entirely to something most people would have to be crazy to do (oh wait... never mind) while at the same time not forgetting to eat, do homework, go to your job, talk to family, acknowledge friends, etc.; it's getting better at the process of writing -- if not writing 50,000 words then maybe 35,000 or 3,000. As long as new words are being created and a story is being told, I've succeeded.
Current Word Count: 20,394
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Apart from spending time with family and friends, one of the things I miss most about Minnesota is a good ol' Midwest thunderstorm. Living in the Seattle area ensures plenty of rain but very little thunder and lightning to accompany it. Even though my first trip (of two) back to Minnesota this past summer was only for a few days, the storm gods answered my prayers.
The wall of wind hits first, shaking the trees to within an inch of their life. Some can't handle it and soon many small branches and a few larger ones litter the ground. Inside the house, looking at the chaos through a pane of glass, it's nearly silent; only the muffled rustle of one hundred thousand leaves brushing against one another as they whip back and forth and a faint whistle coming through the crack under the back door can be heard. Then there's an intense flash of light immediately followed by a sonorous boom and the soft tinkle of dishes in the cupboard. When I step outside the wind whips at my t-shirt, trying to whisk me away along with thousands of leaves that were too weak to hold on. I stand firm, exhilarated by the darkening sky pierced by bent batons of light conducting the cacophonous roars of one hundred angry giants. The wind soon dies down but is succeeded by a deluge of rain. I stand under the overhang watching the rain fall in heavy sheets. Before heading back inside I step out from beneath the overhang long enough to get my hair just wet enough so that droplets of water can caress their way down the side of my face and the back of my neck. Once inside, I sit at the kitchen table sipping a hot cup of tea and listening to the placid pitter-patter of heavy raindrops overhead and the rumble of distant thunder.
Summer Thunderstorm
Divine one blissful thunderclap so few
Allow to crash upon in silent waves:
Omnipotent applause. As here with you
I lie not even clouds obstruct my gaze.
Auroral lightning flash afore our minds
Moreover blinds excessive sense absolved
By ribbons of torrential rain and winds
Around us gust the only ones involved.
Immersed in tides far more than falling tears,
Now drowned beneath euphoric hearts entwined
Beyond tornados twirling fate in peaceful years;
Eternal dark dispelled by flames mankind.
Within this flood forever snug and warm
I watch this passing Summer Thunderstorm.
I can't promise anything but I'll do my best to get, at the very least, a recapitulation of my summer classes written for next week's post. Until then, I'm logging off. There's a story to be written. Have a great rest of your week! - NLD
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked this post? Didn't like it?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
Apart from spending time with family and friends, one of the things I miss most about Minnesota is a good ol' Midwest thunderstorm. Living in the Seattle area ensures plenty of rain but very little thunder and lightning to accompany it. Even though my first trip (of two) back to Minnesota this past summer was only for a few days, the storm gods answered my prayers.
The wall of wind hits first, shaking the trees to within an inch of their life. Some can't handle it and soon many small branches and a few larger ones litter the ground. Inside the house, looking at the chaos through a pane of glass, it's nearly silent; only the muffled rustle of one hundred thousand leaves brushing against one another as they whip back and forth and a faint whistle coming through the crack under the back door can be heard. Then there's an intense flash of light immediately followed by a sonorous boom and the soft tinkle of dishes in the cupboard. When I step outside the wind whips at my t-shirt, trying to whisk me away along with thousands of leaves that were too weak to hold on. I stand firm, exhilarated by the darkening sky pierced by bent batons of light conducting the cacophonous roars of one hundred angry giants. The wind soon dies down but is succeeded by a deluge of rain. I stand under the overhang watching the rain fall in heavy sheets. Before heading back inside I step out from beneath the overhang long enough to get my hair just wet enough so that droplets of water can caress their way down the side of my face and the back of my neck. Once inside, I sit at the kitchen table sipping a hot cup of tea and listening to the placid pitter-patter of heavy raindrops overhead and the rumble of distant thunder.
Summer Thunderstorm
Divine one blissful thunderclap so few
Allow to crash upon in silent waves:
Omnipotent applause. As here with you
I lie not even clouds obstruct my gaze.
Auroral lightning flash afore our minds
Moreover blinds excessive sense absolved
By ribbons of torrential rain and winds
Around us gust the only ones involved.
Immersed in tides far more than falling tears,
Now drowned beneath euphoric hearts entwined
Beyond tornados twirling fate in peaceful years;
Eternal dark dispelled by flames mankind.
Within this flood forever snug and warm
I watch this passing Summer Thunderstorm.
I can't promise anything but I'll do my best to get, at the very least, a recapitulation of my summer classes written for next week's post. Until then, I'm logging off. There's a story to be written. Have a great rest of your week! - NLD
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked this post? Didn't like it?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
November 6, 2013
The Truth: A Change of Plans
Okay, time to try this for the third time. I started out writing
this post about how I thought that in my two previous
posts I favored one grandfather over the other. I intended to use that as a springboard to write about truth but less than two
paragraphs in, I couldn't think of anything else to write. I realized
that I couldn't think of anything else to write because the truth was illuminated in a light shade of blue and a single
keystroke; I deleted most of what I'd already written and started
afresh with a new angle and an anecdote to prove my point. I got three and a half paragraphs in
before Blogger decided it hates me. I mean seriously, how does hitting the undo button delete everything I'd written in a previously saved draft of the blog? Thank God I'm not doing something stupid like going to school for Computer Science in order to get a job intimately working with computers for the rest of my life. Oh, wait... that's exactly what I'm doing. So here I am writing this post for the third time after four episodes of Archer, a thousand more words in my NaNo Novel, a peanut butter sandwich and a few shots of tequila (just kidding, Mom).
And if you're worried I've forgotten, I'll conclude the epic saga, "The Past One and a Half Years of My Average Life," next week but I just had to change my plans a little bit to work this out with myself. Once I'm done with my introspective/philosophical blogna and if you didn't stop reading after that terrible pun, there's a sonnet waiting for you. Okay, now I'll get to what I actually want to write.
While it is true that as a child I was always more excited to see my paternal grandparents because they lived so much further away and, hence, I didn't get to see them as often, that doesn't mean I cared about one grandfather more than another. But it was on this uncertainty, in addition to the fact that I didn't have the same reaction when my maternal grandfather died as when my paternal grandfather died and a few sentences that didn't make it into the final drafts of my previous posts, that I tried to base my argument. Even though I edited out those sentences for a reason, they lingered in my mind and festered. I asked myself, "Could it really be true that I cared about one grandfather more than the other." So with this post I set out to seek the truth. Like I said, my failed attempts at writing about it was enough evidence for me but I'll break the rest of it down for you.
My primary internal conflict came from the fact that I didn't (and still haven't) really cried for my maternal grandfather. But there are many variables -- variables that have nothing to do with the amount of love I had for each grandfather -- that go into my tear ducts. When my paternal grandfather passed away I was also dealing with the struggles of my first quarter of college: making new friends, papers, exams, projects, upcoming finals. In comparison, I wasn't in school at the time of my maternal grandfather's death so the absence of that stressor made things much more emotionally manageable. But because the only other major loss in my life was accompanied by a total mental breakdown I thought that because I didn't experience one when my maternal grandfather passed away meant I somehow cared about him less. I now realize that the mourning process doesn't work like that. It's different for each person; for each loss. Another variable is that I was unable to attend my maternal grandfather's funeral but was able to be there for my paternal grandfather's. Being surrounded by hundreds of other people mourning the loss of the same person makes the tears flow a little easier, I think. Not only that, but my dad and the rest of his family have always been very emotionally strong people. They were there to be strong for me, allowing me to lean on them and cry if I needed to. When my mom's father passed away, she was stretched emotionally thin as it was having just celebrated her eldest son graduating from college and moving out into the real world; I had to be one of the ones she could lean on. Similarly, when I went to spend a few days with my grandmother before going back to school for summer classes, I felt that I needed to be strong for her.
And if you're worried I've forgotten, I'll conclude the epic saga, "The Past One and a Half Years of My Average Life," next week but I just had to change my plans a little bit to work this out with myself. Once I'm done with my introspective/philosophical blogna and if you didn't stop reading after that terrible pun, there's a sonnet waiting for you. Okay, now I'll get to what I actually want to write.
While it is true that as a child I was always more excited to see my paternal grandparents because they lived so much further away and, hence, I didn't get to see them as often, that doesn't mean I cared about one grandfather more than another. But it was on this uncertainty, in addition to the fact that I didn't have the same reaction when my maternal grandfather died as when my paternal grandfather died and a few sentences that didn't make it into the final drafts of my previous posts, that I tried to base my argument. Even though I edited out those sentences for a reason, they lingered in my mind and festered. I asked myself, "Could it really be true that I cared about one grandfather more than the other." So with this post I set out to seek the truth. Like I said, my failed attempts at writing about it was enough evidence for me but I'll break the rest of it down for you.
My primary internal conflict came from the fact that I didn't (and still haven't) really cried for my maternal grandfather. But there are many variables -- variables that have nothing to do with the amount of love I had for each grandfather -- that go into my tear ducts. When my paternal grandfather passed away I was also dealing with the struggles of my first quarter of college: making new friends, papers, exams, projects, upcoming finals. In comparison, I wasn't in school at the time of my maternal grandfather's death so the absence of that stressor made things much more emotionally manageable. But because the only other major loss in my life was accompanied by a total mental breakdown I thought that because I didn't experience one when my maternal grandfather passed away meant I somehow cared about him less. I now realize that the mourning process doesn't work like that. It's different for each person; for each loss. Another variable is that I was unable to attend my maternal grandfather's funeral but was able to be there for my paternal grandfather's. Being surrounded by hundreds of other people mourning the loss of the same person makes the tears flow a little easier, I think. Not only that, but my dad and the rest of his family have always been very emotionally strong people. They were there to be strong for me, allowing me to lean on them and cry if I needed to. When my mom's father passed away, she was stretched emotionally thin as it was having just celebrated her eldest son graduating from college and moving out into the real world; I had to be one of the ones she could lean on. Similarly, when I went to spend a few days with my grandmother before going back to school for summer classes, I felt that I needed to be strong for her.
There may come a time when I subconsciously decide I no longer need to be strong and will allow myself to cry -- to mourn -- for my grandfather, but that aspect of the mourning process just hasn't come for me yet.
Both of my grandfathers were very, very special people. Certainly, they each had their own areas of grandparenting at which they excelled and personalities that made them very different people but I loved them both the same and couldn't imagine what my life would be today if I hadn't had the privilege of knowing them both for the extraordinary men they were.
Both of my grandfathers were very, very special people. Certainly, they each had their own areas of grandparenting at which they excelled and personalities that made them very different people but I loved them both the same and couldn't imagine what my life would be today if I hadn't had the privilege of knowing them both for the extraordinary men they were.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was also going to write something philosophical on the subject of truth but I decided these last few posts have been long enough already. In place of eight extra inches through which you'd have to scroll, I wrote a sonnet:
Traveling East
The sun traverses cobalt skies but in
Its rightful place is standing still, while ants
Below the earth are swept away by wind;
Among them spiders try to hide but can't,
By ninth commandments they abide; a bright-
Eyed youth perceives it all through outcurved lense;
The contradicting paths of those upon
An anthill layered deep with sands of sense,
That coalesce to form one paragon --
Unknown except to those of passage earned;
Now traveling west to where we'll never come;
It seems so far away yet if he turned
Around, it's little more than twelve steps swum.
Though multitudes of things the bright-eyed youth
May never know, he only writes the truth.
If you only want to read this blog for the poetry (I'll completely understand if you do), from now on just skip down to the second section. I sincerely hope, though, that you'll start/continue to read the journal section of my blog.
That's all for now, so have a great rest of your week and if you're doing NaNoWriMo, don't give up!
- NLD
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Today would have been my Grandpa Benson's 87th birthday.
Happy Birthday, Grandpa. You are profoundly missed more than I can express.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked my writing or blogging skills? Didn't like them?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
I was also going to write something philosophical on the subject of truth but I decided these last few posts have been long enough already. In place of eight extra inches through which you'd have to scroll, I wrote a sonnet:
Traveling East
The sun traverses cobalt skies but in
Its rightful place is standing still, while ants
Below the earth are swept away by wind;
Among them spiders try to hide but can't,
By ninth commandments they abide; a bright-
Eyed youth perceives it all through outcurved lense;
The contradicting paths of those upon
An anthill layered deep with sands of sense,
That coalesce to form one paragon --
Unknown except to those of passage earned;
Now traveling west to where we'll never come;
It seems so far away yet if he turned
Around, it's little more than twelve steps swum.
Though multitudes of things the bright-eyed youth
May never know, he only writes the truth.
If you only want to read this blog for the poetry (I'll completely understand if you do), from now on just skip down to the second section. I sincerely hope, though, that you'll start/continue to read the journal section of my blog.
That's all for now, so have a great rest of your week and if you're doing NaNoWriMo, don't give up!
- NLD
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Today would have been my Grandpa Benson's 87th birthday.
Happy Birthday, Grandpa. You are profoundly missed more than I can express.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked my writing or blogging skills? Didn't like them?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
October 30, 2013
A Plate Full of Food
When I left off in the last post I was a glowing ball of optimism having made it through my first year of college. Fall quarter tore me down faster than my cat could finish a plate of canned cat food but I built myself back up into more of the person I want to be. I know I will never live up to my own standards, though, so the best I can do is be the best me I can be. I'll start by trying to edit out these tacky sentences... maybe not.
To rewind the tape a little bit, Spring quarter went as well as any 18 credit quarter can. Serendipity got me into two of the classes and helped me decide what I (maybe) want to do with my life. When I registered for spring quarter I was already looking ahead to summer quarter, specifically, a class on J.R.R. Tolkien's imaginary languages. Not wanting to miss an opportunity to geek out and get three credits for doing so, I based my spring schedule around fulfilling the unnecessary prerequisites for the Tolkien class. I say unnecessary because I could have just asked for an instructor override, but taking the prereq class sounded like a good idea, you know, just to make sure. Poor research on my part led me to believe that the Tolkien class was a linguistics class with a linguistics class prereq. I later learned -- thankfully before registration -- that it was being offered through the Eurasian Studies department and therefore had one of two Eurasian Studies classes as a prereq. So, naturally, as any person wanting to take a class on Tolkien's imaginary languages should, I signed up for "Intro to Russian Civilization." The linguistics class I originally thought was the prereq still fit into my schedule, though, so I signed up for that as well. Then I got to thinking... Linguistics is cool. Majoring just in Computer Science doesn't sound stressful enough. What if I double majored? That's not enough, though! Oh no! I've always wanted to take some formal classes on Creative Writing so I'm not just some blubbering idiot talking to himself on the internet! Triple major? Heck yeah! Computer Science, Linguistics, and Creative Writing! It'll be great! I can be the modern Tolkien! ...
No.
I've contented myself with a double major in Computer Science and Linguistics. The linguistics and computer science classes I took were full of interesting material but the professors' inability to teach made things slightly less interesting -- unless you count that one time my linguistics prof left his lecture-microphone on when he went to the bathroom. Glorious moments of awkward hilarity aside, the Russian Civ class and my honors class -- a study of the Dominican Republic -- were the highlights of spring quarter. It was nice for a change not to be studying the Greeks or the Romans and actually learn something about a culture that I haven't known since the fifth grade.
As great as spring quarter was, it ended with a plate full of food and a piteous moan. The week before finals I got a text from home letting me know my cat wasn't eating or drinking. It's just a little blockage in her system. It'll pass through by the time finals are over. At least that's what I kept telling myself so I could make it through my finals without rushing home once a day to make sure nothing had happened. After finals were over, after staring in amazement at all the crap that had accumulated in my 183 square foot dorm room, after hauling it all down six flights of stairs and after somehow managing to make it all fit in the same car that brought a considerably less amount of crap nine and a half months ago, I sat anxiously in the passenger seat of the car not knowing what to expect when I got home.
I still hadn't gotten over the pangs of sudden emptiness that hit me every time I thought about my grandfather no longer being alive. I didn't want to lose the cat that had been such a large -- and I mean morbidly obese, large -- part my life for the past fourteen years; the cat whose every purr sounded like the soft hum of a motor boat on the other side of the lake, rushing to shore before the rain started to come down; the cat that in those early years (before she became old and cranky) would lick my ear -- inside and out -- until I squirmed away from her; the cat that I named "Frisky" but turned out to be not so frisky unless it was to make her escape and thunder her way back to one of her favorite hiding spots; the cat that had been with me through sickness and health, three moves and a divorce, the good days and the bad. And now -- at the end of a long school year -- I was faced with the prospect of losing her.
When I got home she was definitely thinner but beyond that she seemed almost herself, that is, arthritic and reclusive. Between unpacking and organizing my crap then repacking some of it for a trip to Seattle for my brother's college graduation I had very little time to find out what was actually going on with Frisky. I went to bed each night not knowing. In the morning, even before I cleared the sleep from my eyes, I'd go into the next room and check under the bed where she liked to lie. She drank very little and ate even less but hung in there, leaving me with a choice. Though choices are never as simple as we make them out to be, my choice boiled down to either believing she was in enough discomfort to justify putting her to sleep or leaving her with a bowl of water and a bowl of food and hope that when I got home in two days the house didn't smell bad. I chose the latter, clinging to the hope that she'd get better.
I left not knowing if when I got back my cat would still be alive. She was; my grandfather wasn't. My Grandpa Benson had been unwell for many months and his condition had worsened in the weeks leading up to my brother's graduation so we knew it was only a matter of time before the long, hard-fought battle with cancer and Alzheimer's ended. Perhaps it was because we knew it was close to the end or perhaps because I lost my other grandfather not seven months prior, but in that crowded, noisy restaurant where it's hard for my mom to hear her cell phone go off, I knew from the moment I saw my sister's eyes -- unblinking, fixed -- on our mother, that something had happened. My sister's white-knuckled index finger bending upward two times, beckoning towards fresh air, was merely confirmation.
I don't know if it was because I had already been through it once and became a stronger person or because I didn't have the stress of school looming over me or a combination of both and then some, but I never once cried for my maternal grandfather the way I cried for my paternal grandfather; I tell myself it wasn't for lack of love -- I loved them both equally as much -- but it certainly wasn't for lack of tears. After getting home and finding Frisky still alive but the bowl of food as full as when I left, I was yet again faced with a decision. I'd be leaving again in two days, this time for a five day trip to Minnesota so that I could spend time with my grandmother before I had to be back at school for summer classes. Still clinging to the hope that Frisky could get better, I took her to the vet. She hated car rides, trips to the vet, and anywhere unfamiliar to her, yet I wanted to put her through all three for a hope as thin as she'd become.
The vet said he couldn't be absolutely sure of anything without a $100 x-ray but said there was likely a blockage -- possibly a tumor -- that had obstructed Frisky's digestive system. Not wanting to spend $100 to know for sure, $150 on an operation if it was just a blockage and my last hope if it was a tumor, I left the veterinary clinic with a terrified cat and a nagging conscience. So later that same day I put Frisky through two more car rides to get her a $73 shot of steroids they said might clear the blockage.
That night, she drank quite a bit and even ate a little food. As I sat on the bed petting her, listening to her purr as loudly as she ever had, I was hopeful she would make a full recovery.
The next morning -- the morning of the day before I left for Minnesota -- I didn't go in and check on her first thing, as I'd done all the previous week. Instead, I ate a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats and even brushed my teeth afterwards. When I finally went to check on her I found her lying crumpled up on her side, out from under the bed -- away from her favorite spot. She was still breathing but nothing in all the world could have prepared me for what happened next...
To rewind the tape a little bit, Spring quarter went as well as any 18 credit quarter can. Serendipity got me into two of the classes and helped me decide what I (maybe) want to do with my life. When I registered for spring quarter I was already looking ahead to summer quarter, specifically, a class on J.R.R. Tolkien's imaginary languages. Not wanting to miss an opportunity to geek out and get three credits for doing so, I based my spring schedule around fulfilling the unnecessary prerequisites for the Tolkien class. I say unnecessary because I could have just asked for an instructor override, but taking the prereq class sounded like a good idea, you know, just to make sure. Poor research on my part led me to believe that the Tolkien class was a linguistics class with a linguistics class prereq. I later learned -- thankfully before registration -- that it was being offered through the Eurasian Studies department and therefore had one of two Eurasian Studies classes as a prereq. So, naturally, as any person wanting to take a class on Tolkien's imaginary languages should, I signed up for "Intro to Russian Civilization." The linguistics class I originally thought was the prereq still fit into my schedule, though, so I signed up for that as well. Then I got to thinking... Linguistics is cool. Majoring just in Computer Science doesn't sound stressful enough. What if I double majored? That's not enough, though! Oh no! I've always wanted to take some formal classes on Creative Writing so I'm not just some blubbering idiot talking to himself on the internet! Triple major? Heck yeah! Computer Science, Linguistics, and Creative Writing! It'll be great! I can be the modern Tolkien! ...
No.
I've contented myself with a double major in Computer Science and Linguistics. The linguistics and computer science classes I took were full of interesting material but the professors' inability to teach made things slightly less interesting -- unless you count that one time my linguistics prof left his lecture-microphone on when he went to the bathroom. Glorious moments of awkward hilarity aside, the Russian Civ class and my honors class -- a study of the Dominican Republic -- were the highlights of spring quarter. It was nice for a change not to be studying the Greeks or the Romans and actually learn something about a culture that I haven't known since the fifth grade.
As great as spring quarter was, it ended with a plate full of food and a piteous moan. The week before finals I got a text from home letting me know my cat wasn't eating or drinking. It's just a little blockage in her system. It'll pass through by the time finals are over. At least that's what I kept telling myself so I could make it through my finals without rushing home once a day to make sure nothing had happened. After finals were over, after staring in amazement at all the crap that had accumulated in my 183 square foot dorm room, after hauling it all down six flights of stairs and after somehow managing to make it all fit in the same car that brought a considerably less amount of crap nine and a half months ago, I sat anxiously in the passenger seat of the car not knowing what to expect when I got home.
I still hadn't gotten over the pangs of sudden emptiness that hit me every time I thought about my grandfather no longer being alive. I didn't want to lose the cat that had been such a large -- and I mean morbidly obese, large -- part my life for the past fourteen years; the cat whose every purr sounded like the soft hum of a motor boat on the other side of the lake, rushing to shore before the rain started to come down; the cat that in those early years (before she became old and cranky) would lick my ear -- inside and out -- until I squirmed away from her; the cat that I named "Frisky" but turned out to be not so frisky unless it was to make her escape and thunder her way back to one of her favorite hiding spots; the cat that had been with me through sickness and health, three moves and a divorce, the good days and the bad. And now -- at the end of a long school year -- I was faced with the prospect of losing her.
When I got home she was definitely thinner but beyond that she seemed almost herself, that is, arthritic and reclusive. Between unpacking and organizing my crap then repacking some of it for a trip to Seattle for my brother's college graduation I had very little time to find out what was actually going on with Frisky. I went to bed each night not knowing. In the morning, even before I cleared the sleep from my eyes, I'd go into the next room and check under the bed where she liked to lie. She drank very little and ate even less but hung in there, leaving me with a choice. Though choices are never as simple as we make them out to be, my choice boiled down to either believing she was in enough discomfort to justify putting her to sleep or leaving her with a bowl of water and a bowl of food and hope that when I got home in two days the house didn't smell bad. I chose the latter, clinging to the hope that she'd get better.
I left not knowing if when I got back my cat would still be alive. She was; my grandfather wasn't. My Grandpa Benson had been unwell for many months and his condition had worsened in the weeks leading up to my brother's graduation so we knew it was only a matter of time before the long, hard-fought battle with cancer and Alzheimer's ended. Perhaps it was because we knew it was close to the end or perhaps because I lost my other grandfather not seven months prior, but in that crowded, noisy restaurant where it's hard for my mom to hear her cell phone go off, I knew from the moment I saw my sister's eyes -- unblinking, fixed -- on our mother, that something had happened. My sister's white-knuckled index finger bending upward two times, beckoning towards fresh air, was merely confirmation.
I don't know if it was because I had already been through it once and became a stronger person or because I didn't have the stress of school looming over me or a combination of both and then some, but I never once cried for my maternal grandfather the way I cried for my paternal grandfather; I tell myself it wasn't for lack of love -- I loved them both equally as much -- but it certainly wasn't for lack of tears. After getting home and finding Frisky still alive but the bowl of food as full as when I left, I was yet again faced with a decision. I'd be leaving again in two days, this time for a five day trip to Minnesota so that I could spend time with my grandmother before I had to be back at school for summer classes. Still clinging to the hope that Frisky could get better, I took her to the vet. She hated car rides, trips to the vet, and anywhere unfamiliar to her, yet I wanted to put her through all three for a hope as thin as she'd become.
The vet said he couldn't be absolutely sure of anything without a $100 x-ray but said there was likely a blockage -- possibly a tumor -- that had obstructed Frisky's digestive system. Not wanting to spend $100 to know for sure, $150 on an operation if it was just a blockage and my last hope if it was a tumor, I left the veterinary clinic with a terrified cat and a nagging conscience. So later that same day I put Frisky through two more car rides to get her a $73 shot of steroids they said might clear the blockage.
That night, she drank quite a bit and even ate a little food. As I sat on the bed petting her, listening to her purr as loudly as she ever had, I was hopeful she would make a full recovery.
The next morning -- the morning of the day before I left for Minnesota -- I didn't go in and check on her first thing, as I'd done all the previous week. Instead, I ate a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats and even brushed my teeth afterwards. When I finally went to check on her I found her lying crumpled up on her side, out from under the bed -- away from her favorite spot. She was still breathing but nothing in all the world could have prepared me for what happened next...
By 1:20 that afternoon, she was gone.
A lot happened between when I found her and 1:20. After a great deal of muffled sobs so my suite mate wouldn't hear, I finally got it all typed out but then transferred it to a separate Word document. I may share the details one day, but not today. It still hurts too much.
After wrapping her diminished, limp form in a fresh towel, it was time to take her for one last car ride to the Veterinary Clinic I know she would have hated.
Was it the multiple stressful car rides to the Veterinary clinic? Was it the shot of steroids? Could it have been prevented if I hadn't done what I did? These are the questions that filled my mind on the car ride home and several hours afterward. The only answer that'll keep me sane is, "things happened the way they were supposed to happen." All her adult life I jokingly complained about how it sounded like a herd of elephants every time she galloped down the hallway. Well, she finally went on that diet I'd been talking about for the last ten years and I think it was all that reserve fat that kept her alive as long as she was. Had she been any thinner to start with, she very well could have passed away while I was still at school or while I was away for my brother's graduation. She didn't. Whether it was what I did in an attempt to save her that killed her, I don't know for sure, but what would I have done if she hadn't died? Could I have left her alone for five days while I was away in Minnesota? No. And I don't know if I would have felt better or worse if I had taken her to the vet to be put to sleep but it doesn't really matter because everything happened the way it was supposed to happen.
The only guilt I feel is that I cried so much (and still do, apparently) for Frisky -- a cat -- when I haven't shed much more than a few tears for my grandfather -- the man that taught me to hunt and where to find the best fishing, the host of the best Fourth of July weekend I've ever had and probably will ever have, the farmer that taught me there's so much more to life than a lucrative harvest and new toys or clothes. Life is playing with the old, faded toys your mom played with when she was a kid; it's hard work and dirt on your torn jeans; it's doing what you love with a dog (or cat) at your side; it's making popcorn balls on New Year's Eve; it's a plate full of homegrown corn on the cob and tomatoes sprinkled with sugar; it's family; it's flying the airplane you built through silver, opaque, occasionally turbulent clouds until you could touch the sun but then coming back down for a landing because that's where all the memories are.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Once again, I wrote far more than I thought I would. I promise next week's post will be happier. I just have to slog through some of this emotion-y stuff before I can start writing about topics that are a bit more fun. Unfortunately I don't have a sonnet for this post but expect one with next week's blog, in which I (hope to) finally catch up to the present goings on in my life.
As always, thanks for reading! And have a safe and happy Halloween!
-NLD
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked my writing or blogging skills? Didn't like them?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
Was it the multiple stressful car rides to the Veterinary clinic? Was it the shot of steroids? Could it have been prevented if I hadn't done what I did? These are the questions that filled my mind on the car ride home and several hours afterward. The only answer that'll keep me sane is, "things happened the way they were supposed to happen." All her adult life I jokingly complained about how it sounded like a herd of elephants every time she galloped down the hallway. Well, she finally went on that diet I'd been talking about for the last ten years and I think it was all that reserve fat that kept her alive as long as she was. Had she been any thinner to start with, she very well could have passed away while I was still at school or while I was away for my brother's graduation. She didn't. Whether it was what I did in an attempt to save her that killed her, I don't know for sure, but what would I have done if she hadn't died? Could I have left her alone for five days while I was away in Minnesota? No. And I don't know if I would have felt better or worse if I had taken her to the vet to be put to sleep but it doesn't really matter because everything happened the way it was supposed to happen.
The only guilt I feel is that I cried so much (and still do, apparently) for Frisky -- a cat -- when I haven't shed much more than a few tears for my grandfather -- the man that taught me to hunt and where to find the best fishing, the host of the best Fourth of July weekend I've ever had and probably will ever have, the farmer that taught me there's so much more to life than a lucrative harvest and new toys or clothes. Life is playing with the old, faded toys your mom played with when she was a kid; it's hard work and dirt on your torn jeans; it's doing what you love with a dog (or cat) at your side; it's making popcorn balls on New Year's Eve; it's a plate full of homegrown corn on the cob and tomatoes sprinkled with sugar; it's family; it's flying the airplane you built through silver, opaque, occasionally turbulent clouds until you could touch the sun but then coming back down for a landing because that's where all the memories are.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Once again, I wrote far more than I thought I would. I promise next week's post will be happier. I just have to slog through some of this emotion-y stuff before I can start writing about topics that are a bit more fun. Unfortunately I don't have a sonnet for this post but expect one with next week's blog, in which I (hope to) finally catch up to the present goings on in my life.
As always, thanks for reading! And have a safe and happy Halloween!
-NLD
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked my writing or blogging skills? Didn't like them?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
October 23, 2013
A Long Time Coming
This post has been a long time coming. Though I have posted here and there it never amounted to more than a few sentences. I wanted my first post in a long while to be a good and proper post and not some feeble, four-lined "I promise to post something soon," devised in the company of a lazy 18-year-old's excuses. I'm 19 now - almost 20. And I'd like to think these past one and a half years have made all the difference in the world.
One and a half years ago -- when I was too busy studying for tests to write (ha) -- I told myself that once AP tests were over I'd get back to writing. My AP tests came and went, yet I did not resume my writing. My high school graduation fell upon me but I didn't capitalize on any of that stuff called emotions and write a single line of poetry; I didn't write during the brief respite before I started packing my life into boxes for the move out to Washington -- even when long forgotten memories made an appearance in the form of ties I wore to dances or doodles drawn in the corner of my biology notes. Not long after, most everything I'd known in the first 18 years of my life became nothing more than a fading horizon in my rear view mirror.
I, oh yes, I was a soon-to-be college freshman and nothing in the world could scare me... Until the night before move-in happened. To my utter and complete amazement, life, the real world, and my own inhibitions hit me like a sack of alarm clocks fired from a high powered water cannon. Drenched in my own excitement, anxiety, optimism and misgivings I somehow made it through my first few weeks of college as most college students somehow do: hyped up on caffeine while drowning themselves in new people, new clubs, new classes, Halo 4, Angry-German music, and exploring the new freedoms of living away from their parents -- all just to keep their mind off how someone as stupid as them could possibly think they belong in this academic world of people far more intelligent than them.
As time went on I found a group of friends and started to fall into a comfortable routine of class, schoolwork, YouTube, Doctor Who, sleep, repeat and, on rare occasions, venturing beyond the confines of my dorm room to try those crepes or Russian dumplings I'd heard so much about. Classes too became easier and less stressful with each passing week.
One and a half years ago -- when I was too busy studying for tests to write (ha) -- I told myself that once AP tests were over I'd get back to writing. My AP tests came and went, yet I did not resume my writing. My high school graduation fell upon me but I didn't capitalize on any of that stuff called emotions and write a single line of poetry; I didn't write during the brief respite before I started packing my life into boxes for the move out to Washington -- even when long forgotten memories made an appearance in the form of ties I wore to dances or doodles drawn in the corner of my biology notes. Not long after, most everything I'd known in the first 18 years of my life became nothing more than a fading horizon in my rear view mirror.
I, oh yes, I was a soon-to-be college freshman and nothing in the world could scare me... Until the night before move-in happened. To my utter and complete amazement, life, the real world, and my own inhibitions hit me like a sack of alarm clocks fired from a high powered water cannon. Drenched in my own excitement, anxiety, optimism and misgivings I somehow made it through my first few weeks of college as most college students somehow do: hyped up on caffeine while drowning themselves in new people, new clubs, new classes, Halo 4, Angry-German music, and exploring the new freedoms of living away from their parents -- all just to keep their mind off how someone as stupid as them could possibly think they belong in this academic world of people far more intelligent than them.
As time went on I found a group of friends and started to fall into a comfortable routine of class, schoolwork, YouTube, Doctor Who, sleep, repeat and, on rare occasions, venturing beyond the confines of my dorm room to try those crepes or Russian dumplings I'd heard so much about. Classes too became easier and less stressful with each passing week.
While many of my fellow freshman found enjoyment in getting drunk in a crowded apartment where nobody knows you and no one would remember you anyway, I became a moderately content, introverted student, finding happiness in reading, YouTube, and even a little writing. Still, at the back of my mind discomfort lingered; I somehow thought I was incompetent and too stupid for college. I pushed it down, though, and simply set to work on my next six hour Calculus assignment or five page paper.
I attempted NaNoWriMo and managed to balance 39,204 words with classes and homework before I was dealt one of the shittiest hands in the history of a college freshman. I was feeling confident I'd win NaNoWriMo, having just broken 39,000 words the weekend of Thanksgiving. The day I got back to school, though, I got a call from my dad saying my grandfather had just passed away. Being so far away it didn't seem real at first. I felt sad, yes, but the grief didn't really hit me. All my other insecurities did: the pent up feelings of incompetence, a three hour Calculus exam, finals in two weeks. All this in addition to the first major loss in my life made that week after Thanksgiving a struggle. I coped, though. I made plans to get back to Minnesota for the funeral, I studied the best I could for my Calculus exam and tried to focus on one thing I needed to get done at a time. Very slowly, though, it sunk in that I just lost my grandfather -- a grandfather who always found his greatest joy and pride in his grandchildren and made us his highest priority at the many Christmas and Easter gatherings, school concerts and plays, weekend visits and family reunions, never forgetting to bring his many quirks I found so endearing and an endless stream of stories. I began to feel down but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle. That is, until the five page honors paper I hadn't started yet was due in 24 hours. At ten o'clock the night before it was due I began to experience minor panic attacks and by midnight I couldn't even look at the Word document let alone think about writing three more pages without shaking uncontrollably and feeling like my head and throat were collapsing in on themselves like some old building that had just been dynamited. I called home and between many tears my mother helped me calm down and decide that the best thing to do was try to forget about school for the moment, email my honors professor and ask for an extension on the paper. Even so, I didn't get much sleep that night. But I lived through it.
With many tears, hugs, stories, and laughs I made it through my grandfather's funeral and -- with more tears, an emergency nine o'clock pm ride to Mom's house, a lot of encouragement, hot chocolate and hard work -- made it through my finals, specifically, the two three-page papers for my honors class.
Though Winter Break provided respite from my worries, it did not dissipate all the apprehensions left over from Fall quarter. In the days leading up to re-move-in, I again suffered from small panic attacks and couldn't stop worrying about homework I didn't even have yet, in particular, the first paper I'd have to write for my next honors class. The first few days were hard -- much harder than the first few days of Fall quarter. But through the process of finding ways to cope with the stress I found a new group of friends -- a group of people that accepted me into their friend circle and made me feel like I fit in when most everyone else had already found their niche by the fourth week of the previous quarter. While a friend group I felt comfortable with was helpful, it wasn't enough; I decided to get some counseling. I came out of my first session with the desire to not only control the stress in my life to prevent another breakdown but to understand the stress that inevitably will invade my mind and body no matter how much I prepare for it. The only way to do that was to understand myself.
The honors class that at first was so stressful soon became an aid to philosophical thought, introspective thinking and my favorite class of Winter quarter. In addition to trying to understand my mind I took up climbing and swimming laps in an attempt to understand my body. With the development of good habits and a fresh view of the world, school, and myself I made Winter and Spring quarters some of the most fun and rewarding moments of my school career thus far. It wasn't always easy but I worked hard and took life one thing at a time, all the while developing an appreciation of self. I do what brings me happiness, and if that includes other people so much the better, but if what I want to do on a Friday night is plop my butt down with a good book and cup of tea, well, by golly that's what I'll do. Even those activities that are frustrating and taxing -- like de-bugging a program or rock climbing -- provide their own brand of happiness; the euphoria when I finally get a program to work or finally ascended that route I'd been working on for a week is worth it.
I attempted NaNoWriMo and managed to balance 39,204 words with classes and homework before I was dealt one of the shittiest hands in the history of a college freshman. I was feeling confident I'd win NaNoWriMo, having just broken 39,000 words the weekend of Thanksgiving. The day I got back to school, though, I got a call from my dad saying my grandfather had just passed away. Being so far away it didn't seem real at first. I felt sad, yes, but the grief didn't really hit me. All my other insecurities did: the pent up feelings of incompetence, a three hour Calculus exam, finals in two weeks. All this in addition to the first major loss in my life made that week after Thanksgiving a struggle. I coped, though. I made plans to get back to Minnesota for the funeral, I studied the best I could for my Calculus exam and tried to focus on one thing I needed to get done at a time. Very slowly, though, it sunk in that I just lost my grandfather -- a grandfather who always found his greatest joy and pride in his grandchildren and made us his highest priority at the many Christmas and Easter gatherings, school concerts and plays, weekend visits and family reunions, never forgetting to bring his many quirks I found so endearing and an endless stream of stories. I began to feel down but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle. That is, until the five page honors paper I hadn't started yet was due in 24 hours. At ten o'clock the night before it was due I began to experience minor panic attacks and by midnight I couldn't even look at the Word document let alone think about writing three more pages without shaking uncontrollably and feeling like my head and throat were collapsing in on themselves like some old building that had just been dynamited. I called home and between many tears my mother helped me calm down and decide that the best thing to do was try to forget about school for the moment, email my honors professor and ask for an extension on the paper. Even so, I didn't get much sleep that night. But I lived through it.
With many tears, hugs, stories, and laughs I made it through my grandfather's funeral and -- with more tears, an emergency nine o'clock pm ride to Mom's house, a lot of encouragement, hot chocolate and hard work -- made it through my finals, specifically, the two three-page papers for my honors class.
Though Winter Break provided respite from my worries, it did not dissipate all the apprehensions left over from Fall quarter. In the days leading up to re-move-in, I again suffered from small panic attacks and couldn't stop worrying about homework I didn't even have yet, in particular, the first paper I'd have to write for my next honors class. The first few days were hard -- much harder than the first few days of Fall quarter. But through the process of finding ways to cope with the stress I found a new group of friends -- a group of people that accepted me into their friend circle and made me feel like I fit in when most everyone else had already found their niche by the fourth week of the previous quarter. While a friend group I felt comfortable with was helpful, it wasn't enough; I decided to get some counseling. I came out of my first session with the desire to not only control the stress in my life to prevent another breakdown but to understand the stress that inevitably will invade my mind and body no matter how much I prepare for it. The only way to do that was to understand myself.
The honors class that at first was so stressful soon became an aid to philosophical thought, introspective thinking and my favorite class of Winter quarter. In addition to trying to understand my mind I took up climbing and swimming laps in an attempt to understand my body. With the development of good habits and a fresh view of the world, school, and myself I made Winter and Spring quarters some of the most fun and rewarding moments of my school career thus far. It wasn't always easy but I worked hard and took life one thing at a time, all the while developing an appreciation of self. I do what brings me happiness, and if that includes other people so much the better, but if what I want to do on a Friday night is plop my butt down with a good book and cup of tea, well, by golly that's what I'll do. Even those activities that are frustrating and taxing -- like de-bugging a program or rock climbing -- provide their own brand of happiness; the euphoria when I finally get a program to work or finally ascended that route I'd been working on for a week is worth it.
I've learned to not be afraid of what lies a mile ahead of me and instead focus on what is at my feet; it is only by one step at a time that we as human beings may traverse great distances.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When I started writing this post I intended to cover everything from the end of my senior year of high school to the present. As I kept writing and writing and writing, though, I realized it was becoming far too long for a single post -- and I haven't even gotten to the sonnet! -- so I decided to break it up into two posts.
This is obviously a transition post for me. I'd like to transition from this being just a blog of poetry and more a blog of my life, thoughts, and experiences, which is more of what I intended when I originally created the blog but I fell into focusing just on the poetry. My journals will probably not be this extensive in the future but I'm definitely going to try to do more of it than I previously did, even if I don't have a sonnet to accompany it. It is my hope that by doing so I will get into the habit of writing a little bit each day.
I appreciate you having read this far and I only ask that you bear with me a little while longer so as to allow me to introduce the sonnet. It is the sonnet I wrote in the first few weeks of my freshman year -- the first sonnet I'd finished since before graduation. As a part of the "getting to know your floor mates" process, we were all asked to put something up on the bulletin board that describes who we are using the acronym SIVS (no it's not a disease). It stands for Skills, Interests, Values, Strengths and this is what I wrote:
SIVS
Like pleasant murmurs heard from humblest rill,
Regard such discourse that which I observe;
Peripheral voice in silence speaking still
With skill and care, for that what's said preserve.
Expanding knowledge -- this is my pursuit;
Of land, of lore and more, of me, of thee,
I'll learn such forms from those far more astute.
Reveal perspectives few would deign to see.
Conflagrant suns emit creative light
Upheld by values deep engrained. Should dark
Pernicious clouds obscure this inward sight
A runnel new shall wash away the blight. Hark!
Amidst all these, a multitude of strengths --
Conviction. Aye, for this I'd go great lengths.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked my writing or blogging skills? Didn't like them?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When I started writing this post I intended to cover everything from the end of my senior year of high school to the present. As I kept writing and writing and writing, though, I realized it was becoming far too long for a single post -- and I haven't even gotten to the sonnet! -- so I decided to break it up into two posts.
This is obviously a transition post for me. I'd like to transition from this being just a blog of poetry and more a blog of my life, thoughts, and experiences, which is more of what I intended when I originally created the blog but I fell into focusing just on the poetry. My journals will probably not be this extensive in the future but I'm definitely going to try to do more of it than I previously did, even if I don't have a sonnet to accompany it. It is my hope that by doing so I will get into the habit of writing a little bit each day.
I appreciate you having read this far and I only ask that you bear with me a little while longer so as to allow me to introduce the sonnet. It is the sonnet I wrote in the first few weeks of my freshman year -- the first sonnet I'd finished since before graduation. As a part of the "getting to know your floor mates" process, we were all asked to put something up on the bulletin board that describes who we are using the acronym SIVS (no it's not a disease). It stands for Skills, Interests, Values, Strengths and this is what I wrote:
SIVS
Like pleasant murmurs heard from humblest rill,
Regard such discourse that which I observe;
Peripheral voice in silence speaking still
With skill and care, for that what's said preserve.
Expanding knowledge -- this is my pursuit;
Of land, of lore and more, of me, of thee,
I'll learn such forms from those far more astute.
Reveal perspectives few would deign to see.
Conflagrant suns emit creative light
Upheld by values deep engrained. Should dark
Pernicious clouds obscure this inward sight
A runnel new shall wash away the blight. Hark!
Amidst all these, a multitude of strengths --
Conviction. Aye, for this I'd go great lengths.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Liked my writing or blogging skills? Didn't like them?
Leave some feedback and let me know why! I'm always seeking to improve.
Thanks for reading!
Unpublished material, ©2013 Neal Digre
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)